


intenerate

by parsnipit



Series: mot juste [2]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Aftercare, Consensual Non-Consent, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Non-Sexual Bondage, Non-Sexual Kink, Non-Sexual Spanking, Non-sexual sadomasochism, Off-Screen Kink Negotiation, Pale Bondage (Homestuck), Pale Kink (Homestuck), Pale Porn (Homestuck), Pale Romance | Moirallegiance, a teeny bit of, and gamzee miraculously knows how to make everything better, hoooo boi this a lot of kink, in which feelings are complicated, karkat is very okay with this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-29
Updated: 2019-05-29
Packaged: 2020-03-20 15:08:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18995098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/parsnipit/pseuds/parsnipit
Summary: After a bad night training with the threshecutioner cadets, Karkat craves his moirail's attention. Instead of simply communicating his needs, he decides to employ some rather unorthodox methods to get Gamzee to notice his distress. Gamzee responds accordingly. (Or, the one in which Karkat wallows in self-loathing and decides to break the rules like the tiny badass he is, and Gamzee demonstrates, very firmly, why that's not a good idea.)





	intenerate

**Author's Note:**

> intenerate: (v) to make tender; soften
> 
> warnings: brief and minor injuries/blood/violence, pretty intense self-loathing, brief implied (previous) self-harm, consensual nonsexual noncon, nonsexual sadomasochism, nonsexual spanking, nonsexual power exchange, nonsexual bondage, brief mentions of child abandonment + drug addiction

You stand in the middle of a blood-spattered street, your chest heaving and your teeth bared. Teal blood sticks to your fingers, clumps in your hair, drips sluggishly from your claws. Your own gaudy blood coats your shoulder, your back. Across from you, the tealblooded bastard you had been giving a _very sound mauling_ to stands, swaying on his feet as his moirail paps his cheek and shoots you a dark glare over her shoulder. You growl at her, thready and irritated, and spit a mouthful of congealing blood off to the side. Fucking _fine._ You win. Technically. But somehow, the fact that your enemy has been papped out of the fight doesn’t exactly feel like _victory._

You shake yourself off, whirling around and shouldering your way through the small crowd that had encircled your fight and gotten their jolly fucks off by ogling at your gross goddamn blood. Fuck it. You’ve disappointed enough people today—there’s no sense in disappointing Gamzee anymore. You’ll fight if a fucker prompts you (like that goddamn tealblood did), but you’re not going to attack someone who’s in the middle of being shoosh-papped. You’re not _that_ twisted. Besides, Gamzee trusts you to handle yourself, hence why you didn’t drag him to the shops today.

Guess you’ve kicked his trust right in the face. Again.

Scowling, you stomp to the nearest public ablutions block as the sun arches over the horizon. You wipe the blood from your skin with a small forest of damp paper towels, picking it out from under your claws and swishing cold water between your fangs until they’re blood-free. You exchange your bloodied clothes for a clean set from your sylladex, then glance wearily at your palmhusk. You already know what you’re going to see, and—yep, right on time.

terminallyCapricious [TC]  began trolling  carcinoGeneticist [CG]  at 6:54 

TC: hey, best friend! it’s getting to be kinda motherfuckin late, isn’t it? you gonna get your fine-ass self home soon?

TC: IT’S MOST RIGHTEOUSLY COOL IF NOT, BUT A BROTHER WOULD SINCERELY APPRECIATE BEING INFORMED ON THE MATTER.

TC: i don’t wanna get to worrying about you too awful much.

TC: SO I HOPE I’LL TALK TO YOU MOTHERFUCKIN SOON, BELOVED <>

terminallyCapricious [TC]  is idle 

TC: karkat…?

TC: SUN’S UP, BEST FRIEND.

TC: you got a suncloak, right? and goggles?

TC: DON’T YOU BE GETTING SUNBURNED, HEAR? THAT'D BE SOME UNFUNNY SORT OF SHIT.

TC: let me know you’re safe?

TC: HONK :O(

terminallyCapricious [TC]  is idle 

You wince, leaning against the (disgusting) ablutions block wall to tap out your responses. You’re angry as _shit,_ but not at him, and you don’t want to worry him unnecessarily. (Okay, so you—did want to worry him, maybe, a little bit, because you’re gross and insecure and you don’t know how to ask for his attention like a Mature Grown-up Troll, but you don’t want him _worried_ worried. You’d like to think you’re better than that.)

carcinoGeneticist [CG]  began trolling  terminallyCapricious [TC]  at 7:21 

CG: HEY, GAMZEE. I’LL BE HOME SOON, DON'T WORRY.

TC: :OD

TC: wicked!

TC: YOU OKAY, LITTLE BROTHER? SOMETHING COME UP?

CG: YEAH, I’M FINE. JUST A LONG NIGHT AT WORK.

A very long, very shitty, night at work.

TC: aww, i’m sorry! that ain’t no kind of motherfucking fun.

TC: GET YOUR FINE SELF HOME AND WE CAN JAM ABOUT IT, YEAH? ;O)

TC: i’ll make you forget all about that stressful shit, bro.

TC: GET YOU FEELIN’ BLISSED AND RELAXED AS ALL SHIT, JUST YOU WAIT.

TC: we gotta jam first, though. you know your rules

TC: AND YOU GOT ME WORRIED SOMETHING FIERCE, YOU DID.

TC: but we'll get a fucker sorted soon. pale for you, best beloved. <>

You don’t deserve him. Holy shit, you don’t deserve him, and you are going to be in so much trouble when you get home and he finds out what you did _holy shit—_ (You are, perhaps, sickeningly excited by this; your guilt remains, however. As fond as you are of his attention, you did a bad thing to get it, and you know it.)

CG: PALE FOR YOU TOO, DUMBASS. SEE YOU SOON. <>

You let out a slow breath, tucking your palmhusk into your pocket. Homeward bound you are, though half of you dreads what you’ll face there—the other half hungers for it, because you’re a desperate, needy piece of shit. You make your way to the train station, your suncloak draped over your shoulders and your stomach churning miserably. Your captain was right. You’ll never make a good cadet if you’re this self-absorbed. What the hell were you even thinking when you signed up? _You?_ A threshecutioner? Ha! The only reason they enlisted you was to earn brownie points with the Empire—having a mutant in their ranks undoubtedly brings them the press attention they so desperately crave.

The train ride home is long and tense, and by the time it's over you want nothing more than to curl up in your pile and forget absolutely everything that happened tonight. There’s no way Gamzee’s going to let you, though—especially not once he finds out you got into a fight, of all things. You’re supposed to be the put-together one. You’re supposed to be rational and in control, you’re supposed to be—to be _not this._ Not this self-centered, untrustworthy, unreliable bastard.

You stumble off of the train once it reaches the station, then begin the arduous trek to your hive. There are many pros to living in the middle of nowhere, but this? This is one of the cons. It’s another two miles of hiking before your hive comes into sight, and that means another two miles of fretting and wallowing in your abundance of self-loathing. The pain from your (minor, although Gamzee won’t see it that way) wounds is beginning to make itself very known, in the absence of adrenaline, though you do your best not to show it as you finally slip into your hive, kicking your shoes off.

“Gamzee?” you call, and your gangly and _fucking incredible_ palemate bounds down the stairs in a few enormous leaps, beaming. He could destroy you with that smile alone.

“Best friend!” He wraps you up in a smothering hug, which usually you don’t mind (though you'll huff and fuss and pretend to, just to hear him laugh and tease you). This time, though, the hug presses against the clawmarks you’re sure you have across your back, and you can’t hold back a hitching gasp. Gamzee yanks away immediately, holding your shoulders, his eyes sharp on you. “Best friend? You hurt?” His nostrils flare, his tail lashing anxiously. “You smell like blood.”

Well, there goes your attempt at subtlety. “It’s nothing,” you mutter, because you’re a petulant fucking _wiggler,_ holy shit.

“Did somebody hurt you?” Gamzee’s eyes are wide now, frightened. His hands flutter across your shoulders, your face, like he’s not sure where to touch—like he’s not sure where he _can_ touch. “Somebody hurt you, best friend, I’ll—I’ll—” His lip curls, flashes his ungodly sharp fangs around an ominous growl, and you shake your head quickly.

“No, no, shh—nobody hurt me,” you say, his need yanking you out of your own head for a moment. You reach up, smooth the pads of your fingers along the arches of his cheeks, the crisp lines of his paint. “Shoosh, Gam, it’s okay, I’m okay. Nothing happened. There was—a little disagreement, but that’s all.”

“A disagreement?” He frowns at you, letting his hands rest over yours where they cup his face. “What the motherfuck kind of disagreement could ever there be what would allow somebody to _put_ _fucking claws to you—”_

_“Shhh.”_ You lean up, cup the back of his neck and press your foreheads together. Croon softly, papping your palm against his cheek in a soothing, steady rhythm. “Shh-shh-shh. It wasn’t—all their fault, exactly—” you add, wincing around the words. Gamzee’s eyes widen, then narrow, and you hunch your shoulders and feel your face flush with shame. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—I didn’t want—I—”

This time it’s his turn to shoosh you, and he does so unabashedly. He brings a hand up, smooths his palm along your cheek, nuzzles his nose against yours. “Hush now, best friend, it’s alright. We’ll jam it out, yeah? But first I gotta know, I gotta see your hurts.”

“They’re not bad, I promise—I already cleaned—”

Gamzee settles you with a stern look, and your stomach twists. “I’d see your hurts now, Karkat, and I’d tend to them the way I’m meant to.”

You bite your lip before stripping your suncloak and shirt off, captchaloguing them in your sylladex. Gamzee looks you over with a careful eye, clicking unhappily to himself as he does. You ball your fists up at your sides, unable to meet his gaze. You’re so fucking _stupid,_ picking fights the way you do, worrying your palemate like this—

“Oh, Karkat,” Gamzee says—soft, sad. He touches your side, turns you around, and you hear him suck in a breath when he sees the clawmarks down your spine, the bite at your shoulder. “Oh, best friend, no. You went and got yourself beat all the fuck over.”

“Should see the other guy,” you mutter, to salvage at least  _some_ of your pride. You’re a piece of shit on the tailend of some vast cosmic bull, but you didn’t _lose,_ and you want your palemate to know that. “I fucking—”

“I don’t care what you did to him,” Gamzee says fiercely, snagging your hand and leading you towards the ablutions block. “Don’t give a motherfucking _shit,_ Karkat. It wasn’t worth it. Whatever you got yourself up in arms about, _it wasn’t worth these hurts on you._ Ain’t hardly nothin’ worth that, and you’d do well to remember it.”

You fall silent, stumbling after your palemate, your guilt expanding in your chest until you think it might shatter your ribs. It’s hard to breathe around. It’s so hard. He scoops you up once you reach the ablutions block, setting you down on the counter. “I’m sorry,” you whisper, and you are. You hate agitating him like this, but you goddamn do it anyways, because you’re—

“I know,” Gamzee says, touching your cheek before reaching for a washcloth. “We’ll get a motherfucker sorted, brother, don’t you worry. I just gotta do this first, I just gotta make sure your hurts are looked after before anything else, please, littlest—”

You lean forward, touch your forehead to his. Anything. Anything for him. (Except listening, except obeying the few rules he’s seen fit to give you, except _being a good fucking palemate.)_ “Yeah,” you whisper, closing your eyes. “Yeah, okay. Anything you need, Gam.”

Gamzee shifts slightly, cradles your head against his shoulder as he reaches back to wipe the damp washcloth across your wounds. You twitch on instinct, muffling a weak growl against him, and he shooshes you, low and sweet. You press closer, growl more needily for him, and he shooshes again, then keeps shooshing, making soft pale sounds in the back of his throat until you’re loose and limp against him.

He sets the washcloth aside once he’s finished with it, beginning to rasp his tongue across your wounds instead. Your breathing hitches (feels good, feels _right)_ , and you chew absently on the collar of his shirt, your own dumb body driven to groom him in return. Once he’s deemed your wounds clean, he picks you up and settles you against his chest, and you can’t find it in yourself to protest. Squirm closer, instead, wrap your limbs around him like the world’s angriest koala and let him carry you to the pileblock.

He sits you down in one of the armchairs, then kneels in front of the dresser, pulling out your first aid kit. You lean forward, prop your elbows on your knees and let him dab antibiotic ointment across your wounds with unbearably gentle fingers. He tapes several gauze bandages across them next, then decaptchalogues one of his jackets and pulls it over your head. It’s big enough that you nearly drown in it, but it smells like him—smells like safety and home and love, and you huddle down into it. “There,” he says, satisfied. “All motherfuckin’ better. You’re not hurt anywhere else, best friend? You promise me that?”

“Promise,” you say, reaching up to pet his temple, hungry to be close to him but unwilling to take more than that (and even that one touch is more than you deserve, isn't it?). He leans into you, wrapping his arms around your shoulders and crooning softly.

“Pile now, best friend,” he murmurs, whisking you up into his arms and setting you down in front of the pile. You squirm into the little wall-cave your pile resides in, turning around and looking expectantly for him. “I’ll be there in just a second, love.” You hear him stand, fussing with the windows and the door—hear the _click_ as he locks them, and your stomach flips. You knew he was going to do this, you _knew_ the second you broke your rules (you’d _wanted_ it, that was the whole fucking _point,_ but you were bad and terrible and you don’t deserve his attention, you don’t, you _don’t—)._

You curl up at the back of the pile, your spine pressed to the wall, your claws kneading anxiously at the beanbag beneath you. Gamzee slips into the den behind you, sprawling out in front of the entrance. The two of you regard each other solemnly for a moment, from opposite ends of the pile.

“So, then,” Gamzee says, “a motherfucker wanna tell me what the fuck happened before I get my scolding on?”

* * *

You’d had a hunch what Karkat was on about the second he didn’t come home on time. See, you and Karkat have some motherfuckin’ rules for each other—not many of ‘em, and they’re all agreed-upon by the both of you and rehashed every time you stumble into a flaw. You ain’t meaning to _control_ him, no fuckin’ way. He’s his own, for well and true, and he can make his own grown-ass decisions without you putting limits on him, most the time, but there _are_ limits. Nothing unreasonable, you’d like to think, and Karkat has assured you that all your rules for him are fine and okay and he _wants_ to obey them. Usual-like, he does.

But, see, one of the rules is that he comes home before daybreak—that, or he lets you know _(before_ the sun rises) that he’s _not_ going to be home and that he’s still safe. He’s real good about that. Sometimes he forgets, but that’s okay, because he always rushes to let you know soon as he remembers. Doesn’t want you up all day fretting, you think. Little sweetheart. So when he _doesn’t_ tell you he’s alright before daybreak, and you’re pacing a hole into the floor of your empty-ass hive, you get real motherfuckin’ anxious.

Then there’s the _fighting._ Obviously, ain’t neither of you allowed to pick fights. Self-defense, now, that’s a different thing whole and entire, and you got the thought up in you at first that that’s why your brother came home smelling like blood and anger. Defending himself, had to be, ‘cause he ain’t started a fight in—in _perigees._

Tells you it ain’t so, though. Tells you it was at least partly his fault. And are you disappointed? _Fuck no._ Ain't nothin’ that boy could do to disappoint you. You are mighty worried, though. Brother don’t like to break his rules unless he’s real stressed, craving for attention that—try as you might—you just haven’t convinced him he can _ask_ for. (Thinks he doesn’t deserve it, most times, and that _pisses you off,_ but you’ll get him trained out of it yet. He _is_ gettin' better at it, slow and sure, but this ain't one of his better nights, so it would seem.)

And anyway, you get it, kind of. Way back when you were still wigglers, Karkat and his badass lusus ofttimes did you the kindness of taking you in when you hadn’t seen the old goat in too fuckin' long. First couple weeks you'd spent with 'em, you’d been scared stiff of the crab—scared to give him reason to turn on you, reason to kick you out or abandon you (and worse, _Karkat)_ the way the goat had. So you were real good, followed all his rules to a goddamn T, even when you got off the sopor and got your fuckin' kick back in you.

And then one day you didn’t follow his rules. Got some sicknasty urge down in you, one you didn’t quite understand, and you’d—shit, what had you done? Wandered out of hive near daybreak, probably, or some such stupid shit. The crab had gotten his scold on good and proper, and you were well chastised and you felt fucking _awful,_ but—but after he’d done shrieked you out, he’d hugged you, and that was—nice, that was—

You got his attention, is the point. You got it even when you couldn’t think to ask, and he’d told you by all his shrieking and scolding that you mattered and he cared what you did.

“You know you don’t have to pull shit like that,” Karkat had told you later that morning, lounging around in the pile.

“Shit like what, best friend?”

“Dumb shit.” He’d scrubbed his knuckles between your horns and you’d squawked and squirmed and he’d laughed. “If you want more attention, just—tackle him, or something.”

“What? No way, I couldn’t do _that—”_

“Sure you could. It’d piss him off less than running around at daybreak would, dumbass.”

You’d figured he was right about that, and from thence you did your damn best to just _show_ the crab you wanted his attention without pissing him off. Of course, you didn’t _tackle_ him, ‘cause you didn’t want a faceful of crab pincer, but maybe sometimes you stood a little closer, or leaned on him, or made quiet tiny grubsounds when he was nearby so he’d snuggle you. Un-fucking-fortunately, seems to you Karkat wasn’t able to take his own advice—but you’ll get there, one of these nights, and until then, you’re more than happy to give him attention anyway he wants it.

‘sides, your scolding him (your _punishing_ him, though that word still makes you a little queasy) isn’t _just_ about attention. It’s about his guilt, too. You just let him sit and he’ll fester, he’ll work himself up to even worse things, to gnashing teeth and snarls and blooming red bitemarks on his own forearms and you don’t ever want him to get to that point, not ever, _ever_ again. You’ll deal with him now, swift and thorough, and give him the absolution he needs. (Beats you why you can’t just say at him _forgiven, brother_ and him accept it—but if it’s physical penance he needs, then it’s physical penance he’ll get. You figure he feels he don’t deserve forgiveness otherwise. Boy, have you got some teaching to do, but that’s a sweeps-long lesson.)

Right now, Karkat watches you, wary as fucking shit, from the far corner of the pile. He’s got his back pressed up against the wall, unwilling to let you cuddle him the way you got a want to, his whole self stiff and tense and unhappy. Makes you all _kinds_ of worried. He weren’t so bad off when he left this evening, was he? You didn’t let him get this worked up out of negligence, you don’t think. Must have been something happened at work, so you press there, first—

“Come on, best friend,” you coax, real gentle-like. Now’s not the time to be strict on him, not yet. “Let’s start with work. You said it was a long motherfuckin’ night? How come?”

Karkat shifts his shoulders, winces a little—poor pitiful thing, all beat to hell ‘cause he just can’t keep his claws to himself when he starts feeling bad. He’s been better about it, though. Been a fair bit less cantankerous since you’d quadranted with him, and that’s somethin’ you’re mighty proud of. Can’t fault a troll for making mistakes, though; ain’t anybody perfect (though your Karkat does come mighty close).

“It was just—an annoying night,” Karkat admits, grimacing.

“How so?”

“I don’t know,” he says. You arch an eyebrow at him, get your wait on, and he squirms discomfort in the silence before he cracks and continues. “It was the same as usual, mostly—exercises, drill formations, paperwork, all the boring shit. Then we had to this dumbass team drill.” He shrugs, but there’s a tight set to his jaw that tells you there’s a fair bit more to the story than _that._

“What kind of team drill?” you prompt, and his words flow easier this time—he’s getting himself there, trying hard to open up for you, and you chitter softly to let him know you appreciate it.

“Just some stupid—we just had to—it was a fake fucking mission, essentially, and I had a team of three, and we each had specific assignments. I finished my assignment, easy shit, and I _could_ have finished this dumb bronzeblood’s assignment at the same time, if she hadn’t _gotten in the way,_ but she did, and we both got ‘killed,’” he says, putting sassy little air quotes around the word. “So. It’s whatever.”

“That must’ve been frustrating, huh?” you ask, reading the emotions right off his face. He nods bitterly. “So already you’re feelin’ snappy, after this mission gone awry—then what happened?”

“The captain chewed us out. Chewed _me_ out,” he spits, his tail lashing irritably.

“For what?”

“For getting in Eudria’s way. She said I’d never get anywhere if I didn’t learn to be a team player, said I was too self-absorbed to make a good threshecutioner.” He grinds his teeth, his jaw rolling. “The only reason they let me enlist is because I’m a mutant, because I get them _attention_ for being a _freak.”_

“Karkat,” you warn. Another rule trodden on—he ain’t allowed to badmouth himself and he knows it. “Your captain didn’t say that?”

He huddles in on himself, tips his horns at you like he’s making to fight. “No,” he says, his voice sour. “But it’s true. You _know_ it’s true. I’m too small to impress them, my sicklework was shoddy during the entrance exam, I—”

“So you weren’t a perfect candidate,” you admit, “and might be that your mutation gave you a leg up. But that ain’t gonna be why they _keep_ you, best friend. They’re gonna keep you ‘cause they’re gonna see what a total badass you are. They’re gonna—”

“Not if I keep fucking up!” Karkat snaps at you, claws digging into the pile. You look at him, real quiet, and he drags in a breath. “Sorry, I’m—shit, sorry, but I’m on thin fucking ice, here. If I can’t be at one hundred _fucking_ percent all the time, they’re not going to want me anymore.”

You make a knowing, sad little sound. “And that’s the ticket, ain't it? You’re afraid they don’t want you. Afraid your captain doesn’t see the worth in you.” Karkat snarls, but he don’t try to deny it, to his credit. “So now you’re all frustrated your plan didn’t go right, and what’s worse, you’re feeling insecure, motherfuckin’ unvalued. So you get your worknight done, you go to the shops, get into it with some fucker—you wanna tell me how that came about?”

“It was stupid,” Karkat mutters.

“Figured it was,” you say, chill, and he flattens his ears and snaps teeth. You are gonna shoosh the _shit_ out of this feisty little fucker once you’ve finished your scolding. “Ain’t no smart reason to be picking fights.”

“Well, if you already know how shitty a reason it was, then I don’t need to tell you, do I?” he asks, flopping over all pissily so he can turn his back to you, growling annoyance.

“Best friend,” you say, keeping your voice real steady, patient-like, “we can finish this conversation now or while you’re over my knee. Your motherfuckin' choice. Figure for sure enough it'll hurt less if you do it now.”

Karkat stiffens up all over, his growl cutting off sharp. “You’re not going to—”

“Of course I am—and you goddamn well knew I would,” you tell him. “Practically askin’ for it, motherfucker. You were late comin’ home, didn’t think to tell me ‘till after the sun was off the horizon—but you convince me you forgot, Karkat, you apologize, and I’ll let that slide. Did you forget? Was that a mistake?”

He curls up tighter, his tail flicking in angry, aborted little movements.

_“Karkat._ Was that a motherfuckin’ mistake?”

“No, goddamnit,” he bites out, ‘cause if there’s one thing neither of you does in a goddamn pile, it’s _lie._  

“Well, then. One rule broken. And that fight? You wanna tell me that was self-defense? Or you stickin' up for some hard-won value of yours?” you ask, and he shakes his head furiously. “Then you’re gonna have to tell at me a real nice story to make me think that wasn’t just you breakin’ another rule as to get some _very thorough_ attention from your motherfuckin’ moirail. So tell me that story, Karkat.”

“I don't have _that story_ and you goddamn know it. He bumped into me,” Karkat spits, all poison and fury. “At the shops, he bumped into me, and I told him to watch his fucking self, and he said shit, and I punched him in the face for it. There. It was all my _fucking_ fault. Are you happy now?”

“Nah,” you say. “Nah, brother, I’m not, as you well know. So lemme get this straight: you go off, feelin’ angry and insecure like you do, and you pick a fight with this brother to—what? Prove yourself some kinda badass? Get rid of all that bad, hurting feeling and replace it with anger, instead? And then you figure, well, fuck, I’ve already broken one rule—might as well break one more, make sure I get my moirail's notice on of my pain?”

“Well, if you’ve already got it figured out, there’s no point in me telling you otherwise,” Karkat says bitterly. “Let’s just get this over with.”

“Tell me otherwise, Karkat. If I’m wrong, tell me I’m wrong.”

He pins his ears and bares his teeth at the wall, a sliver of white.

“But that wasn’t it, huh?” you ask, gentling your voice. “Wasn’t all. You wanted somebody to make you feel valued again, little motherfucker, get rid of all that hurting for you. Couldn’t just ask for it, so you did what you knew would get you attention—and you’re still needing that attention, ain’t you, best friend? Still _deserving_ of it, but you got a guilt in you, too, for breaking the rules the way you did. Got you all torn up inside.”

Karkat flashes a glare over his shoulder. His eyes are bright, tryin’ hard not to cry. Your heart aches for him. _“Fuck off._ I don’t need your goddamn _attention.”_

“Oh, brother,” you say, trying your damnedest not to sound too patronizing. “Oh, yes you do.” You shift up, out of the way of the entrance. “You know your safeword, Karkat.”

This step is for you, more than it is for him. You can’t _stand_ the thought of hurting him in ways he doesn’t want, so you gotta be sure—you gotta know he knows he can stop you at any motherfuckin’ time, for any motherfuckin’ reason. You gotta know you aren’t forcing him into this, gotta know you aren’t being too rough, because the thing is, _he can’t physically stop you._ You’re strong enough you could do whatever the fuck you wanted, and he’d be too weak to fight you off.

Makes you motherfucking sick to think about.

But he’s got his safeword, and as long as he acknowledges that, you’re okay to move forward, because that’s him tellin’ you he’ll stop you if you go too far. That’s him tellin’ you it’s okay, he wants this, even though he’ll only admit it in those kink negotiation talks what make him blush and stutter something furious. He’s still got some kind of control in this situation, _that’s_ what his acknowledgement tells you, _that’s_ what you need from him right this second.

He pushes himself up, sitting just across from the entrance, tail curled around his feet. He meets your eyes, and for a split second, his whole self softens towards you. “Yeah,” he says. “I know my safeword. And you know yours?”

“And I know mine,” you assure him.

“Good.” And then he lunges out of the pile, and you’re off.

You scramble out of the pile after him and find him already at the door, fumbling with the locks, but you done captchalogued the key already. You prowl towards him, offer him a low warning growl. Used to be you didn’t _have_ this block—used to be he’d lead you on a chase ‘round and ‘round his hive, ‘till he was so worn out that wrestlin’ him the ground wasn’t hardly a thing. Be different, now. He’ll be set to put up more of a fight, and you know you gotta work that fight out of him before you get him turned over your knee or he’ll be so _fucking stubborn_ your swats won’t hardly reach him.

Time for a wrestling match, you guess.

As soon as Karkat realizes he ain’t gettin’ through the door, he darts over to the windows. Realizes those are locked snug, too, and only then does he turn to face you. (Always did prefer flight over fight, your littlest brother, despite all his bluster to the contrary.) He curves his claws, bristles the dark-shiny hairs on the back of his neck and arms and all down his dorsal stripe to his tail-tip. Mighty fierce does your brother look when he gets a mind for it, even you’ll admit. Makes something in you clench hungry with a want to soothe him, but you got a job to do first.

You herd him around the room, testing him—every step forward for you is a step back from him. He’s on the defensive, his growls rattling warily in his chest as you back him up and up and up, demonstrating for him _quite clearly_ who’s in control of the fight here. You can’t help but show off for him a little bit, too—toss your horns and flare your fins, puff yourself up as you edge in closer to him. You think there’s a hint of admiration in his eyes, despite his angry little growls, and doesn’t that just make a brother feel all warm and a-fucking-ppreciated inside?

Then he lunges at you, and you kinda forget about that, for a second, because holy fuck you got a wildfire of a palemate to wrestle into submission. He slams his little horns into your chest—not hard enough to bruise, but hard enough to give you a sting, for sure. His claws come up to sink into your shoulders, prickling against your skin, though they don’t penetrate. You slam him back against the wall, lean down and headbutt him none-too-gently in the forehead. He presses back, snarling challenge at you, and a thrill rolls down your spine. You’ve gotta make this little warmblood of yours _surrender,_ goddamn.

You bare your fangs, snarl at him low and deep, watch him shiver at the noise. His tail lashes furiously, and he wraps his legs around your waist and his arms around your neck. You draw back from the wall, spread a hand across his back and growl pretty for him—a quiet, continuous rumble in the pit of your chest, just south of a purr. He hisses and then dives forward to set his teeth against your neck: a warning. You dig your claws into his back, just enough to sting, just enough to set him squirming. He won’t bite you. You _know_ he won’t. It’s a foolish bluff, and one you’re more than okay with calling.

You slide your hand up, tangle it into his hair and tug to guide his head back away from your throat. He snaps his teeth but doesn’t fight you, not hard enough to injure himself, which would be _most un-fucking-okay._ You hold him there, real sturdy, and he prickles his claws at the nape of your neck but don't slash. You step back until you feel the dresser behind you, then take a seat there on the carpet. Keep one hand firm in his hair, brace the other against his shoulder and push him ‘till he lays in front of you, hissing and spitting up a storm as he tries to writhe out of your grip. You crouch over him, straddle his hips as he fights to get his legs up enough to kick you off of him. Clever little fighter.

You know if he was trying to win, you’d not have such an easy time of it, him bein' a threshecutioner cadet and you bein' a goddamn baker. (But as it is, he _wants_ this, seeks after his own defeat, and you’re more than happy to give it to him.)

Once you’ve got him pinned under your weight, you let go with one hand to fumble a dresser drawer open and fish out your silk ropes: sturdy, glossy purple things what have Karkat chewing his lip and faltering in his fighting for a second. The second you move to sit him back up, though, get his hands tied behind him, he bursts into movement again—scrambles to get to his feet, but you land a (gentle) jab to the back of one knee. It buckles, and you hook a claw in one of the belt loops on the back of his jeans and yank him into your lap again. He hisses, his elbow flying back to say a nasty hello to your ribs, and you surge forward and set your fangs at the back of his neck, rumbling low and stern.

In front of you, Karkat freezes, his chest rising and falling rapidly as he sucks in breath. He starts to growl, and you press down a little harder with your eyeteeth, let him feel how sharp they are—how easy you could bite straight through, chomp down on his spinal cord. (You’d never. You’d _never.)_ He shivers himself still and silent again. You tie his arms snug behind him, each hand on the opposite elbow and laced with rope all down his forearms. Once you’re done with that, you rasp your tongue apologetically over the nape of his neck, chittering quietly to him. He relaxes briefly against you, then remembers he’s supposed to be fighting 'cause he's a badass and tugs furiously at his arms again.

“Let me _go,”_ he hisses, but that ain’t his safeword, so you don’t. Instead, you keep him settled real nice and comfy in your lap, and you reach for your claw-clippers. It wouldn’t do to snag claws on his skin when you swat him—you mean to hurt him, but only a hurt as will fade by tomorrow. You certainly don’t mean to draw his blood, to do him _any_ injury unintentional. (You couldn’t bear it.) So you let him get his rant on as you trim the claws of your left hand down, file them to rounded, harmless tips. Ain’t had to do this in a while—they’d almost gotten back to normal trollish points.

“There, now,” you pronounce, satisfied, once you’re done. “Only hurt you’ll feel is that which I _want_ you to feel, little motherfucker—not that that's much consolation, huh?”

He snarls at you, but it’s higher-pitched, this time, with a little panicky whine around the edges of it. He’s coming to realize he’s caught, you bet. Coming to realize he’s got to face this. Coming to realize he’s _got_ your goddamn attention, now.

“Your safeword,” you remind, gently.

“I fucking know it,” he says, peeved as all shit. He tries to lurch out of your lap, but having his arms tied ain’t doin’ no favors to his balance, and you tug him back easy enough, clucking your tongue.

“Easy, now,” you say. “Don’t get to fussin’. You’ll be needing your energy for later.”

“No I won’t,” he hisses, straining against the ropes again, licking his teeth anxiously. “I’m a fucking _adult._ I don’t need you to—”

“An adult what can’t mind himself,” you point out, pulling out a pack of little damp towelettes (he’ll have cried himself out, by the end of this, and you’ll need to clean his pitiful little face) and a jar of salve (poor rump’ll be sore, but that’ll help, some) from the drawer. “An adult what needs his moirail to get a good scolding done of him, ain’t that right? You done bad, Karkat. Time to get a motherfucker sorted.”

“I don’t need to be _motherfucking sorted, god fucking damn—!”_

You pap his butt, not quite hard enough to be a swat, and scoop him up while he rants and raves hisself out. You set your things on the little table between the armchairs, then take a seat in your chair and get Karkat settled in your lap again. You unzip his jeans, pull them off and fling them into the other armchair. Boxers are next—you gotta see his skin. You gotta know you ain’t bruising him, you gotta know exactly how much damage you’re doing—

And besides, you want him to feel every swat nice and fuckin' clear, and you want him feel exactly who it’s from.

The both of you are so goddamn pale, nudity ain’t matter a damn thing anymore, anyhow. Doesn’t even phase him—he keeps right on in his ranting, angry as you please, his tail lashing hard enough to sting when it hits you. You get him settled over one knee, his chest braced comfortable on the edge of the armchair. You hook your other leg over his, keeping him nice and trapped. Wind his tail around your forearm and set it out the way, feeling it flex furiously as you hold it still. Once you got him held secure, you settle in for a wait, because there’s one last step you gotta get through before you actually spank him—one of the hardest steps, for Karkat.

“Best friend,” you say, your voice quiet, so he has to stop his snarling for a second just to hear you. “You know what you’re bein’ punished for?”

“I’m not _being punished!”_ he howls, like there’s still a way he can get out of this if he just complains hard enough at you. “You’re motherfucking—”

Ignore his bluster. Carry on, follow the routine you’ve well-established now. The familiarity of it will comfort him (and you). “You’re bein’ punished for choosing to stay out after daybreak, and for choosing not to let me know, and you're bein’ punished for picking a fight what didn’t need to be fought. You understand?”

_“Fuck—off!”_

“Tell me what you’re bein’ punished for, Karkat.”

He swears you a blue streak, instead, complete with snaps and snarls and growls. (But never once does he insult you, never _once._ Curses out himself, the whole shitty situation, Alternia in general, but never _you.)_ You can wait for him to come around and answer you proper—and you _will_ wait, as long as it takes. You’re not gonna lay a fucking hand on him until he tells you what it’s for. You don’t want him getting it into his head that you’re hurting him because he deserves hurt, because he hates himself, because of any stupid dumbass reason he can come up with when he's like this. You’d never hurt him just for the sake of it. You’d never hurt him because you were angry, because he wasn’t good enough, _never fucking ever._ You will not be the tool of his self-destruction. You hurt him _only_ because he asked you honest, sweeps ago. Because he told you it eases his guilt, because it lets him know you’re watching, lets him know you care a great deal if he gets into trouble. You hurt him to make him feel loved, strange as the concept was when he’d first asked you to do it all that time ago. So when you punish him like this, it’s always for _very specific_ reasons, and those reasons Karkat must acknowledge before you move forward.

“Can wait all day, little brother,” you tell him, gently pushing your jacket up from Karkat’s back to look at the bandages over his wounds, make sure he hasn’t done himself any serious harm in your scuffling. No blood peeks through the gauze, so you let out a little sigh of relief. “You know we can.”

Karkat responds with another impressive and creative tirade, and you gotta smile a little fondly and pet his hair as he struggles. Determined little guy, but he’ll get there, eventually. First he’s got wear himself out—realize you ain’t goin’ _anywhere,_  and that you _are_ patient enough to wait him out. Once he realizes that, realizes he’s stuck and helpless and you’ll have your way with him no matter what he does, he’ll surrender. It’s taken hours, before, but you don’t think that’ll be the case this time. He’s too hungry for your attention, too frantic for your comfort. He’ll break soon.

In the meantime, he alternates between struggling against you to laying limp across your lap, panting as he bolsters his strength. When he rests, you croon softly to him, petting your free hand across his back, his shoulders, his horns. You love him. You love him so much, no matter what, even when he's been an angry-ass little motherfucker and gone traipsing over your rules—and nothing is _ever_ going to change how you feel about him. Whisper soft, sweet nothings to him as he fights (with himself more than you, at this point) and growls and shakes. “You’re alright, little brother, I got you now,” and “Shh, shh, shh, you’re gonna be okay, gonna be just fine,” and “I pity you so much, beloved, so motherfucking much.”

It’ll be the tenderness that breaks him, in the end. It always is.

As he collapses down from another writhing (and completely useless) effort to free himself, you scratch your claws across his scalp, just the way he likes. Don’t go after his horns, yet—he needs to be here, needs to be present and aware for this—but he shudders all the same, whimpering low in his throat. You shoosh him softly, kiss the tip of an ear, his overheated temple, his cheek. “C’mon, beloved,” you coax him, tracing little diamonds through his hair. “You’ve got this. You're almost there, almost done—just tell me why you’re being punished.”

“Because I’m fucking _bad!”_ Karkat finally snarls, which ain't the answer you’re looking for—but it’s _an_ answer, so you figure you're one step closer.

You reach forward, smooth his bangs out his eyes and lean your forehead against his temple. He takes a deep, shivering breath, and you rub your thumb consolingly against his tail. “No, Karkat,” you say, firm as you know how. “Not because you’re bad. You ain’t _never_ bad, you understand? Some of the shit you get up to is bad, but _never you.”_

He lets out that same shivering breath, his fingers curling behind him.

“Tell me why you’re being punished,” you try again, and Karkat rubs his eyes furiously against his shoulder until you set a hand on his head and settle him down again.

“‘cause I’m—stupid, because I wanted your attention so I broke the rules like a fucking _wiggler,_ because I’m an insecure, needy piece of shit—”

You snap your teeth next to his ear, harden your voice. “Enough of that motherfucking _bullshit,_ ‘less you’d like to add your beatin’ up on yourself to the list of rules you’ve broke tonight.”

“It’s true,” Karkat mutters, sniffling sullenly as a motherfucker ever could sniffle. “I—”

“Well, folks, would you guess who just gone and deliberately earned himself another few motherfuckin’ minutes over my knee?” you ask, clacking your horns roughly against Karkat’s to get him to shut the fuck up about your moirail if he ain't got anything  _nice to say._

“What? No! Not fair—”

“I warned you, don’t you even _try_ to ‘not fair’ me, little motherfucker—”

Karkat whines, burying his face against the chair cushion and kicking his feet wigglerishly. “Gam _zee—”_

“Tell me,” you insist, then gentle your voice up again. “Tell me why you’re being punished, little beloved diamond.”

His breath hitches.

“You like that, huh? Like me calling you my little diamond, my sugargrub, my palest fucking star—you’re so brilliant, best friend, you’re so absolutely wonderful, you know that? My perfect miracle, my tenderest love, my darling rose, snowdrift, little badass fighter, best and most dearly beloved—”

“Stop,” Karkat says, his voice cracking. “Stop, Gam, please—”

You stop.

“Don’t deserve it, I don’t deserve you,” he continues, squeezing his eyes shut. “Don’t deserve _this._ I’m sorry, I’m so fucking sorry—”

“What are you sorry for, love?”

“For being _bad.”_

“Karkat.” Soft, gentle, go easy now. “You ain't bad. What you _did_ —it was foolish and goddamn unnecessary, for certain, but we all make mistakes, you know that. So just talk to me, just tell me. Tell me what you did, why I gotta punish you. Please, best friend."

Karkat sucks in a cracking breath. “I— _fuck,_ because I stayed out past sunrise on purpose and didn’t tell you, and because I started a dumb fucking fight.”

“And…?”

“And?” He stiffens, and you pet his shoulders softly, gentle him. “Oh, yeah, shit—and because I said dumb stuff, about—about me.” He pauses, then adds in a grouchy little undertone, “Even if it was only _true.”_

You sigh a little fondly at him. Stubborn little bastard he is, ever and always. “Good enough, my littlest miracle,” you decide, scratching your claws soothingly along his side so he shivers for you. “That’s right, save for that little lie there at the end, but we’ll sort that out soon enough, I figure. And because you did those things, what am I going to do?”

Karkat flexes his claws, shoulders tightening before he forces himself to relax again. “You’re going to spa—to—goddamnit." He takes a deep breath, tightens his jaw. Cute little face is flaming red, now. "You’re going to spank me.”

“Correct again, love. How’d I ever get quadranted up with such a clever motherfucker?” You nuzzle his ear, chittering softly in approval. “You just relax now, brother, you done good. We’ll get your guilt sorted out proper—gonna give you all _kinds_ of motherfucking attention.”

His tail twitches nervously, and you tighten your grip on it, though you take care not to tug—then you lift your hand and finally, _finally_ you get to what you were meant to do. You bring you hand down in a cracking swat across Karkat’s ass, and he yowls like you’ve done gone and stabbed him. Dramatic little motherfucker. (That’s alright—after all, he does only get quiet when he’s all broke the fuck up, and you ain’t got it in you to hurt him when he’s like that.)

You don’t talk, first couple minutes—just focus on your swats, listen to his indignant noisy-ass wails, give him all the undivided attention as he ever did want. You don’t hit _hard_ (can’t risk bruising his precious flesh), but you hit good and steady, and afore long his poor rump’s flushed red and sore and he’s shrieking all kinds of obscenities, his legs jerking where you’ve trapped ‘em under yours. If he’s still got the panpower to swear at you, though, he’s still got the panpower to argue with you, and you don’t wanna _argue._ Gonna wear him down, first, and then lay out the facts for him, nice and clear.

Brother is feeling _mighty_ fucking stubborn tonight, though. It’s another couple minutes of your silent, sturdy swats before he buckles from his swearing to pleading instead, like he can clever his way out of this. “Gamzee!” he wails, straining so pretty against the ropes ‘round his arms. “I said I was  _sorry!_ I know it was bad, I _know—”_

“Do you, now?” you ask, a tad amused by that. “Wonder what gave it away.”

“Fuuuck!” He writhes against you—but not so much an activate effort at escape, you think. Nah. Just a sore little body reacting the way it’s meant to. “Okay, okay, I’ll do what you w-want— _say_ what you want, just—”

“I take it you’re ready to talk now, little miracle, would that be accurate?” You punctuate your question with a nice, firm swat right at the curve where his thigh meets his ass—listen to him howl so fine for you.

_“Yes!_ Gam, talk,  please, _please—”_

(There’s something about it, something about having him here and trapped, his every response under your command—something that makes your chest hum with power, your shoulders feel stronger. You control his pain, his pleasure. You control everything, and there’s a heedy sort of pleasure in it. You’d been terrified of that feeling, first couple times. Thought it meant you were evil as your hatchright said you should be, evil as the ancient subjugglators when the Church used to take its pleasure in culling. Thought you were sadistic and awful, meant to take your mirth from torture, from _inquisition—_

Karkat had assured you that wasn’t the case, and told you even if it was, he’d not mind. He gets a twisted-up sort of pleasure from this, too. You couldn’t give him any more than this right here, though. Couldn’t bring yourself to bruise him, to split his skin, to give him pain just for pain's sake, and he told you he didn’t mind that, either. He’d take whatever you could give and no more. So you’ll give him your best effort here, for damn sure—and ain’t nothing wrong in taking a little pleasure from it for yourself, he’s let you know time and time again. Your pleasure don't come from his pain, though, as you've well discovered. Your pleasure comes from your _control.)_

“And where would you like to start our conversation, motherfucker?” you ask him, not flagging at all in your swats.

He whines at you, makes your chest clench with pity for him, before he answers. “On—fuck, on—staying out late, n-not telling, sorry, _sorry—”_

“I know you are, lil’ guy—’cause you’re not supposed to do that, are you? You’re not supposed to stay out past sunrise without lettin’ me know, not if you can help it.”

“Nooo, I‘m not su-upposed to!”

“Care to enlighten me on why that is?”

“Because it’s too f-fucking _dangerous,_ and—and because it worries you, and I’m not supposed to worry you and I’m really sorry about that, I _am,_ Gamzee, I’m really s-sorry—!”

“I know, I know, shhh,” you say, your voice soothing—lighten your swats, some, let him catch his breath a second. “I know you are, moirail mine. And you won’t be doing it again anytime soon, will you?”

“Nooo, no no no!”

“Gooood, very motherfuckin’ good. I appreciate that, Karkat. Doesn’t put me in a mirthful mood when you go puttin’ yourself in danger—speaking of which.” You shift your hand up, firm your touch again, swat him hard right beneath the base of his pretty little tail as makes him shriek something fierce. “What the fuck else did you do tonight to put your fine self in danger?”

“OW! _Ow ow ow ow—”_ Karkat explains succinctly, his tail flexing frantically in your grip.

“Not quite the answer I’m lookin’ for, I’m afraid, best friend. Care to try again?”

_“F-fight,_ got into a fight, _stupid-ass_ fight,” Karkat finally manages to force out through clenched teeth, and you shift your hand away from that poor little tailbase in reward. He lets out a gusty breath, but he’s still squirming, his poor bottom flushed red and warm under your palm. Messiahs, but you love having him here. Ain't nothin' can hurt him but you.

“And why are we not allowed to get into motherfuckin’ fights?” you prompt, bringing your hand down at the curve of his ass into his thigh again. He arches his back, tosses those pretty little horns in most fierce unhappiness with you as you swat him.

“B-because they’re dangerous and stupid and not ne-necessary, and hurting others is _bad,”_ he gasps.

“So why’d you do it?”

“I was—angry, fucking _pissed—”_

“How come?”

“‘cause fucking _Eudria—”_

You swat beneath his tail in warning and he sucks in a breath and snaps silent. You shift your hand down again. “I don’t wanna hear about what Eudria did right now. Why were you angry, motherfucker? It ain’t just because she fucked with your plan.”

“Because—because the captain—?” he tries, and you hear the confusion in his voice. Poor thing. You gentle up your swats again, let him think a minute. “Pissed off the captain, she said—she said I was bad, she didn’t want—”

“She didn’t say she didn’t want you, Karkat.”

“But she—!”

“You’re puttin’ words her mouth ‘cause you think that’s what she meant. Why’d you think she meant that?”

His chest heaves, his breath coming in gulps. “Gamzee—can’t, I can’t, please—”

“Shh, shh-shh-shh. Easy, now.” You pause your swats—he needs a break, you can hear that much. His voice is getting crackly, warped the way it does when he’s genuinely frightened. You rest your hand on the small of his back, lean down to kiss the nape of his neck. “You’re alright, best friend. I’ve got you, you’re safe here. Breathe a minute with me.”

Breathe he does, sucking in deep draughts of air and letting his head rest against the chair cushion. His whole body trembles against you, warm and exhausted.

“Pitiful little thing,” you murmur to him, releasing his tail. It lashes once, then curls itself nervously around your leg. “I know it’s confusing, motherfuckin' scary. You’re all jumbled the fuck up inside, huh, love?” He nods miserably, and you croon softly to him. “Ask, then, little brother. You can do it.”

He licks his teeth, whining softly until you coo at him again, murmuring encouragement until finally he whispers, “Help? Help me, Gamzee—”

“Always,” you purr, because aren’t those just some of the most _beautiful_ words? “Think back a while, littlest brother. You had a bitchin' plan, didn’t you? A better plan than the old captain had made—you could complete two jobs at once, you didn’t need motherfuckin' Eudria. That right?”

He nods, leaning heavily against you. “Yeah—fuck, yes.”

“Only it didn’t quite work out the way as it was supposed to, and the captain thought you were bein’ self-absorbed. Was that fair of her, Karkat? Were you bein’ self-absorbed?”

“I—” He wrinkles his nose, thinking. “...yes?”

“Yeah. I figure that’s fair.” You scratch your claws softly along his back so he knows you ain’t mad, take care to avoid the clawmarks that _bastard_ left on him. “You were bein’ a tad self-absorbed there, brother, for true enough.”

You feel him tense under you, and you know exactly what he’s thinking. _Bullshit._

“But that don’t make you bad, you understand me?” you ask, stern. “Don’t mean you’re a bad troll, Karkat, nor a bad cadet. You just gotta learn a little bit. That’s what you’re in trainin’ _for._ But that ain’t what you thought when the captain said that to you. You dove headfirst into that self-loathing pit of yours, didn’t you?” He doesn’t respond, so you nudge him a little bit. “Didn’t you, diamond mine?”

“Mm-hm,” he says. Sounds like he’s fighting not to cry, poor thing.

“Made you hurt, what she said. Flared all those insecurities right up, and you got to attacking yourself for ‘em. Troll at the shops was your chance to prove yourself brave, wasn’t he? To prove yourself better than _someone,_  at least.Quiet those insecurities down, at least for a little while, fill yourself up with anger instead. That sound about right?”

He nods, breath hitching. “It was stupid, so fucking _stupid—”_

“Hush, now,” you soothe. “It wasn’t the best decision you’ve ever made, for sure. Ain’t no reason to go fussing and fighting others like that, and you knew it. But there was somethin’ else, too, wasn’t there? You knew if you got into a fight, you’d have my attention. You’d have this right here—me holdin’ you steady, talking you through it, gettin’ pale all over you. You needed a palemate to make you feel better after that shitty night, huh?”

“—sorry,” Karkat whispers. “I shouldn’t have done it that way, shouldn’t have— _manipulated_ you, I’m sorry—”

“Shh.” You run your fingers through his hair, rub a thumb along the tip of a horn. “I’m happy to take you in hand when you need it, best friend, you know that. But you're right in that I’d rather not have done it this way, if the choice'd been mine to make. What could you have done instead, huh? What would’ve be an easier way to do this whole motherfuckin' thing?”

“Could’ve asked,” he says, shuddering small and ashamed. “Could’ve just fucking _asked—”_

“Exactly, my sweet little diamond,” you murmur, rubbing the tensed-up muscles in the back of his neck and shoulders. “You can always ask me for what you need. Ain’t nothin’ shameful about it, and you do deserve it so. But you didn’t think that, did you? Already had those insecurities chewin’ at you; how could you think you deserved attention, deserved love? Too busy hatin’ on yourself to see the truth of the matter.”

You sit back, rest your hand on his rump again and feel him tense against you with a distressed little whine. Shit’s gonna feel worse after a break, and you both know it.

“Shoosh, little motherfucker. We ain’t hardly done—still got the worst crime to get accounted for, we do,” you tell him, giving his ass an apologetic pap. He winces even at that, tender boy. “Can you tell at me what crime that is?”

Karkat whines helplessly at you instead. You lift your hand and bring it down nice and firm under his tail, ‘cause it gets you mighty fucking _pissed_ when he hates on himself, and you’re gonna let him know it nice and _clear._ Gonna let him know in such a way as he _still feels it tomorrow,_ a way as he’ll remember it for _perigees._ He howls his upset with this decision most enthusiastically, blabbering shit unkind as you resume your hearty swats. His poor little tail uncoils from your leg and takes to lashing desperately, instead, so you get it wrapped snug around your forearm again and keep it well out the way.

“Tell me what last thing you did wrong,” you command him, and he wails wordlessly at you. This is hard for him, you know that. Fuck if you’re gonna let him off easy, though, not after how cruel he’s been on your palemate. “Karkat, _tell me.”_

“I said bad th-things! _”_ he finally howls at you, his legs kicking spastically with each blow you land, his back arching desperately. He is such a fine fucking sight, and his pain is something to be held close and treasured, rarest of miracles (as it ever should be).

“Who at?”

“ _Me,_ goddamnit!”

“That’s right,” you say, though you don’t ease up your swats any. “And you’re not allowed to say bad things about yourself, are you, best friend?”

“N-no!”

“And why’s that?”

“I dunno, because you fucking  _said!”_

Huh. Little motherfucker still has energy to snark at you, wouldn’t you know? You give him a minute of quiet, for that—let him dwell on his own impertinence while you make most sound acquaintance with that poor, red-flushed spot under his tail. Ain’t too long before he’s blabbering other answers at you— _because it upsets you_ and _because it’s stupid,_ et fucking cetera—but ain’t none of those the answer you want, and you _ain’t_ gonna answer for him, this time. He knows what you’re waitin’ to hear, anyway. (He’s broke this rule enough times he ought have the punishment for it memorized.)

“Can still do this aaaall day, little brother,” you remind him. “Tell you what, my arm ain’t even tired.” A lie, in all actuality—you're working up a good burn above your elbow, and your palm's tingling somethin' fierce. No reason for  _him_ to know that, though.

“Your endurance,” he gasps, “is a plague on trollkind.”

You gotta laugh at that, though you think maybe he isn't finding it so funny at the moment. Another solid few swats and Karkat collapses against your knee, all the fight gone out of him in a snap—his chest heaves for breath, his whole self trembling, and then—

Then he starts comin' apart for you.

A sob fights its way out of him, then another, another, until he’s crying in great, jagged gulps. Pity crushes at your heart, but you don’t soften your blows, not yet. He’s close, he’s so close—

“C’mon, Karkat,” you murmur, break him tender. “C’mon, you know the answer, you got this—”

“Because it’s not true.” His voice is cracked, weakest rasp you’ve heard from him yet. “Shouldn't say it because it's not f-fucking true, never true—”

“Theeeere we go,” you croon—let your swats lighten, now, though they don’t stop completely. He cries earnestly for you, not fighting against you or the bonds anymore, just squirming helplessly 'cause he  _hurts._  Messiahs, is his surrender gorgeous to see. “That’s right, love, ‘cause it ain’t true. Ain’t none of that shit you said true. You gotta be more _gentle_ with yourself. You're too harsh for your own good. So what say you? When you’ve done been mean to somebody, what do you say?”

“S-sorry,” he chokes out, tears rolling hot down his face. “Sorry, I’m sorry—”

“Who you sorry at?”

_“Me,_ sorry at me—”

You chirr at him, approval washing through you like a warm wave. Fuck yes, there's your boy.  _“Good,_ Karkat, that’s so good. What a sweet motherfucker you are.” You bend down, lean your head against his. Let your hand settle, rest gentle on the small of his back. “And what say you now, best beloved? Do we forgive him?”

Karkat sucks in a ragged breath, shudders it out in another sob, trying to squirm closer to you. You shoosh him, press your lips to his horn so he can feel the chill of your steady breath, rub his hip and side in slow, firm strokes.

“He deserves our forgiveness, doesn’t he?” you murmur. “Poor, pitiful little Karkat—he's been so angry, so scared. He does stuff he doesn’t mean when he gets twisted up inside, but we can forgive him that. He’s so precious—such a kind, brave soul does he have, full of so much pity a motherfucker can’t even wrap his head around it. He’s got pity enough to forgive himself for his mistakes, doesn’t he? Karkat, love?”

Whimpers bubble up from his throat, but he nods desperately, squeezing his eyes shut.

“You forgive him?”

“Yes, fuck, _fuck—”_ he chokes out, pink tears glistening along his lashes.

“As do I,” you rumble, kissing his temple and sighing, full content with the finality of it. “I forgive you, Karkat. It’s all over, all done. There’s nothing more for you to dwell on. No more guilt now, my littlest one. You've been so good, and I love you so, so motherfuckin' much."

Karkat sobs again, but there’s an edge of relief to the sound, now—one that does your heart good. You purr consolingly at him, leaning back to untie the ropes around his arms. He squirms frantically as soon as he’s free, trying to get his arms around every part of you. You shoosh him steadily, rearranging yourself so you can spread the fleece blanket across your lap before settling Karkat’s sore little backside on it. He gets his arms latched around your chest, buries his face against your neck and sobs like you’ve killed him.

“Shh, shh, you did so well, Karkat, so good,” you murmur to him, rocking slow and steady. (His lusus used to do that sometimes, for the both of you, if you had nightmares from sleepin' dry—which was more often than not, after Karkat threw out all his slime to help you get clean.) “All done, all better now, best friend. I’m so proud of you, _so proud,_ shhhh.”

He responds in desperate chirps and warbles, little grubsounds that make you want to squeeze him tight and never let go. You rub soothing circles on his back, card fingers through his hair and rub his horns—not quite hard enough to put him under, but enough to have him slumping in your arms, still wailing like heartbreak. You press your cheek to his, warble a little lusus-lullaby until he’s not crying quite so hard. All the while, you continue to murmur little praises to him—how good he is, how well he did, how beautiful was his surrender. He takes to rasping his tongue over the scent gland at the crook of your jaw, so you nuzzle along his hair, his horns, coat him well in your scent and lay your claim for him to bask in. Yours. Your little palemate, your precious moirail, _yours._

“You were so brave,” you tell him, and he sniffles his agreement at you. “I’m so happy with you, beloved. And you know what?”

He mumbles curiosity against the skin of your neck.

“You’re gonna make one _badass_ threshecutioner. The captain’ll see that soon enough.”

He shifts back slightly, looks at you with one damp-shiny eye, his face streaked with sticky pink tears. “You really think?”

“Mm-hm.” You pull him back to you, take one arm in your hand, gently massage the skin the rope had covered. No chafing, such as you can seen, but you rasp your tongue over his forearms anyway, coating them thinly in a cool, soothing layer of saliva. Karkat warbles lovingly at you, leans forward to nibble at the hair near the bases of your horns. “Such a badass, Karkat. Sure, there’s some shit you can get better at, but that’s not gonna hold you back. You’re a quick learner—and one feisty little fighter, too,” you add, kissing his injured shoulder. He offers you a pleased, albeit weak, chirp. "How you feeling, love? Sore anywhere?"

Karkat pulls back and gives you the old arched eyebrow, like  _no you can't even be serious right now._

"Sore anywhere besides the  _obvious?"_

He shakes his head, leaning forward to push his face into the crook of your neck again, breathing your scent in deep draughts. You cradle him so close to you, squeeze him like he's 'cooned and sway gently, such as makes his pretty red eyes lid sleepily, his breathing deepen. You pet fingers at the back of his neck, trace your claws comfortingly along the outsides of his thighs, his sides, linger between his grubscars until he shudders out a weary breath and relaxes his weight full against your chest. "Love you so goddamn much," you murmur, kissing behind his ear. Little ear flicks happily against you, and you catch the tip between your teeth and offer it a little lovebite that has Karkat chirping fondly. "Now—what say you we get you all cleaned up and settled in for the day?”

When Karkat wearily clicks his agreement, you lean him back from you, though he keeps one hand latched on your arm at all times. You ain’t in any way inclined to knock him off. Take one of those damp towelettes you got sittin’ nearby and wipe them over his face, clear it of dried tears and snot and all the nastiness what comes with a good cathartic cry. He leans into your hand the whole time, ‘till you can’t resist the urge to pap him. Do that for a couple minutes—just pet your hand against his cheeks, his temples, his jaw, a steady little rhythm that has him exhaling and slumping in relief. He looks so _goddamn pitiful,_ huddled up in your jacket like that, eyes all puffy red and hair a motherfuckin’ fluffy mess atop his head.

Once you’ve got him papped down, you gotta force your hands back. He whines needily at you, and you’re damn well tempted to just keep papping him, but you got hurts to heal. You purr soothingly at him instead, get him rearranged gentle as you know how, so he’s draped over your knee again. He squirms a little, like he's making to sit back up and latch onto you again, but you rub and scratch all over his back and shoulders (careful of his wounds) until he settles, chittering quietly to himself. Reach for the salve, pop it open and smear some across your palms. You can’t do much to warm it, chilly as you are, but you rub it between your hands for a couple seconds all the same.

Karkat winces and hisses between his teeth when you go to smear the salve over his sore little bottom, and you croon comfort to him. Coat all that red, warm skin with ointment, taking care to get thorough at the base of his tail, despite his alarmed little clicks when you do. Once you’re done, you close up the jar and smear the excess across the small of Karkat’s back. He grumbles weakly at you, but you just purr a little harder at him and then stand, scooping him up with you. He wraps his legs around your waist, rests his head on your shoulder, and you drape the blanket over his own shoulders to keep him warm and sheltered as can be. Fetch him a cold drink from the nutritionblock, which he eagerly gulps down. You go to get him another glass, then get distracted because he's pressing weary, messy kisses to your throat and shoulder and jaw. You're not a troll strong enough to resist such temptation, laid out warm and soft for you like it is, so you catch his lips and kiss him pale and sweet a minute. When you draw back, you rest your forehead against his and share your air with him.

"You hungry?" you murmur, trailing your fingertips up and down the line of his spine beneath the blanket. "Can make you something. Anything, best friend."

Karkat shakes his head, leans in to bite your shoulder softly, a quiet little command,  _s_ _tay right here._ "Just want you. 'n the pile. 'n maybe sleep."

"Did you eat at the shops?"

"Mm-hm."

"You promise?"

"Mmmm-hm."

"Because if you didn't, you'll be all hungry come eventime, and I—"

"Gam." He pats your face clumsily.

"What?"

"Shh. Shhhh-shh-shush. Your face, shush."

"Yeah. Okay, brother. My face is shushed the fuck up." You chuckle, bracing a hand careful against his back as you pad out the nutritionblock and back up the stairs to the pileblock. You get him settled on his belly in the pile, smooth a sopor patch on his forearm and yours both. He grabs at you, so you sprawl out, draping yourself over his back and waist so he can feel the hum of your purr down deep in his thorax. "Hey, though, bro?"

"Mmph?"

You rub between his shoulders, careful little circles that have him pushing back for more. "I want you to apologize to Eudria next time you see her."

He flattens his ears, huffs at you. "Mmnnnnm."

"Feel better if you do," you say, jostling him a little. He squirms around and nips your shoulder, little fucker. "You know you will."

"Mmmaybe," he mumbles. 

"I'll take it," you say, 'cause you know his maybe's just about as good as his yes. "Thank you kindly, little brother. It's wise of you to consider."

He snorts, then says at you, “Gam?”

“Yeah, best friend?”

“My ass hurts.”

You laugh, craning around to nuzzle into his hair. “Guess that means I did a good job?” you ask, hopeful.

“Yeah.” He smiles at you, soft and muzzy and sweet. “Yeah, you did a great job. Thanks—seriously. It really helped.”

You squirm your happiness. “Well, fuck, you’re more than welcome. Didn’t hurt you too bad?”

He shakes his head, reaching back to ruffle your hair. “You never do. You’re the best, you know that? Good palemate, best friend.”

“Best friend.” You purr so damn hard. _“Best friend.”_

“Yeah, you big dork.” He wraps his arm around your neck, pulls you close enough to bump heads. “Always. I love you.” He scritches his claws through the little tufts of hair at the bases of your horns, and shivers run their way up and down your spine. When he says it again, it’s a sweet little coo of a thing. “I loooove you, Gamzee Makara.”

You are so happy you think probably you’re going to explode. You’re purring too hard to answer him, so you just nuzzle up into his hand, scatter kisses across his palm. He reaches for your left hand, tugs it around so he can kiss your palm, too, and the dark pad on each spindly finger, and the dulled tips of your orange claws.

“I’m gonna pile you so hard,” he promises you, eyes half-lidded and pupils blown in a way that makes your insides twist around all nice and shivery. He rakes teeth over your palm and you chirp giddily at him. “As soon as I can sit up without wincing,” he adds, glancing back at his rear end and flicking his tail before grimacing. “My tail hurts.”

“Aww—” You nuzzle up against his shoulder, hide your smile there. “Want me to pap it for you?”

Full-body shudder goes through him, and his tail curls itself nice and quick around his leg—like _that’s_ gonna protect it. “Nooo, absolutely not, no way, I will bite you _so hard_ your descendants will hemorrhage profusely from the very night they're hatched. _”_

You laugh, kissing under his jaw ‘till he angles his head up and scentmarks your hair. “Aight, aight, if you’re suuuure—”

“I am so sure, _so_ fucking sure, I got a college degree in my sure-ity.”

You chuckle, then reach over and set a hand on the back of his head, guide his chin to rest on the pillows again. “Alright, Mr. Sure-ity, don’t worry, no more tail-paps today. Time to get your rest on, yeah?”

He grunts his agreement, burrowing in amongst the pillow and sighing heavily. “G’morning, Gamzee.”

“Good morning, best friend.” You snuggle yourself into comfort on top of him, yawning sleepily. “Pale for you.”

“Pale for you too, dumbass.” His voice is soft and warm, and so are your dreams, when you sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> i'm gonna go kinkshame myself in a corner now but!! if anybody has a pale gamkar prompt they'd like to see written, feel free to send it to my askbox at [parsnipit](https://parsnipit.tumblr.com/) on tumblr or post it in a comment here! i can't promise to get to it, but i'm always hankerin' for more gamkar to write ( ᐛ )و


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